Ghosts
by ShinyRedPenny
Summary: Henry is visited by all six wives and is given a choice. A mix of the series finale and a bit of A Christmas Carol theme.
1. Chapter 1

**A?N: I have been having some pretty serious writers block the past few months (sorry for all waiting on my other stories!) but this idea has been batting around my brain for a little bit. I'm hoping it gets my creative juices flowing again! Hope you all enjoy!**

Henry fidgeted stiffly, feeling the rough coif cutting into his neck and the sweat dripping down his neck. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly and took a shallow breath, wishing the discomfort away. He had half a mind to stand and wave Hans Holbein away-telling him that he would have to sit for his portrait another time. The thought was overwhelmingly tempting, but he knew he would have to just put up with it. He could already feel his body weakening-could feel the years of hard living catching up to him. The picture Holbein was creating now would hardly give off the image Henry wished to be remembered by, but it would be one that would last centuries. Years from now, he would be remembered fondly by the English people and they would have this portrait to recall his face-the true father of the Tudor dynasty.

He only wished he were leaving a better, stronger legacy to follow him. His sweet boy, his pride and joy, Edward would make a fine king. But he was a delicate boy-so like his gentle mother- and Henry knew if he assumed the throne before reaching adulthood it would be dangerous. If only he had a son that was older and wiser-ready to step into his father's footsteps. He bit is lip, chasing away the anger that he still felt at the years wasted.

If only Catherine had seen sense. If only the Boleyn witch had not ensnared him. If only sweet Jane had lived. If only the German duke had not lied to him about his sister. If only he had seen that little Howard strumpet for the slut she was. If only gracious Katherine were not barren...

So many marriages gone awry. So many failed dreams and hopes crushed. Why had God cursed him so? Leaving only a young, sickly boy and two bastards in his wake. One just as stubborn and one just as cunning as the women who bore them.

Irritation left him more restless than he was even before and he turned his face towards the painter before something caught his eye. His breath caught in his lungs and his throat seized as his eyes widened in shock. He sat, blinking for just a second, but when she didn't disappear he jolted to his feet. Hans melted away and it was just the two of them, staring at each other in silence.

Catherine looked exactly as she did the last time he saw her. Her once glossy, auburn hair had faded into a dark dull brown just as her sparkling blue eyes had been permanently darkened with pain and loss. He remembered the first time he had looked into those eyes and missed the spark that had been in them when he had met her. It had been after they had lost their second child. She had never truly recovered from all her miscarriages and lost babies and as she had aged and lost her youthful beauty, it became more and more apparent. He scrutinized her now and saw the woman he had made her-still as graceful, elegant as when she had first come to England, but old and haggard. He looked at her and felt the old anger he had always carried with him well up inside him.

"What are you doing here?" he practically snarled, but she only smiled at his ire as one would a child throwing a temper tantrum. She always did have a talent of making him feel like the little boy he had been when she had arrived to wed his older brother.

"I have come to see my daughter. Why should that surprise you, Henry?" He stepped towards her as she glanced behind the curtain and Mary approached. He had seen his daughter only yesterday, but she looked a stranger to him now-wearing the traditional Spanish headdress, matching her mother. She looked almost a girl here, though he knew she had grown into a woman.

"You have not always been kind to her," Catherine's voice was gently chiding him as she raised a hand to cup their daughter's cheek affectionately. "I have wept so often...seeing her alone, abandoned by her father." Catherine's tone turned more accusing and her eyes pierced him.

"Is that why you've come back, Catherine? To chide me for all that I am not?" How familiar he was with her disappointed looks and her making him feel like he was never quite good enough.

"She ought to be long married by now," she continued, though Henry grew weary. "She ought to have children of her own!"

"Go away, shade..." he murmured squeezing his eyes and the image of her shut. "Go away, Catherine."

He had loved her, but never the way he should have. She had been lovely and sweet and he had fancied himself struck by cupid's arrow when he had first caught sight of her. But how much had that been that she was forbidden to him? That she was destined to be Arthur's bride. Arthur who had always gotten everything Henry had ever wanted. And then when Arthur had died, and his father and his grandmother had urged him to wed a French princess. But once he had gained the crown, he had been determined to prove them all wrong and claim the pretty Catherine for himself. It had been his first decision as king. And it had been the wrong one.

"You sent me away before...though I loved you." she seemed to taunt him now and it made Henry's anger bubble up again. She turned to obey him, as she had not in real life and he found himself calling out to her again, desperate to know the truth.

"Catherine!" she turned to him questioningly. "The truth...please. Your marriage to Arthur...was it consummated or no?" He expected her stubborn insistance but was instead met with widening, glassy eyes. He felt his heart stop in this moment before she looked away, touching her daughters cheek once more.

"I did it for her...Don't you see, Henry? Mary is meant to be queen. She will rule...in this future you have created. She will purge England of the heresy you have inflicted. It is her birthright." The truth she was revealing had him staggering. Not quite catching the meaning of her words, he zeroed in on the one fact.

"So it was a lie? I was right? You were Arthur's wife for true? Our marriage was cursed by God?" She looked fearful for just a moment before adamantly shaking her head. And the Catherine he knew so well, the stubborn woman, was back.

"I did it for her."

And with that, she was gone. Henry blinked, shocked by her sudden absence. The room was bright and still and Holbein was before him again, studying his face. Henry took a shuddering breath, glancing down at his shaking hands before clenching his fist shut.

He had been right.


	2. Chapter 2

As Henry gazed at the likeness created by Holbein, he felt his age seeping through every part of him. He had just lost his friend since childhood, Charles, and now he was truly alone and his mortality was suffocating. And the man that stared back at him from the canvas looked alone and old and tired. And this was not how he wanted to be remembered. He who had once been the golden prince of Christendom. If he could not feel the way he used to again, at the very least he could leave with world with an image of him in his prime. And this portrait was not that.

"Mr. Holbein...When you painted my father, you made his likeness when he was old, sickly, and ill. He looked nothing like a King of England." Henry ignored the slightly confused look on the painter's face. "More like a poor wretch...a feeble..plain...dying man."

"Your majes-"

"Mr Holbien!" Henry interrupted, overwhelmed by the crushing feeling that his life...his legacy, was crumbling under his feet. "This painting is a lie!" He pointed at the grey, lifeless man on the canvas, refusing to believe that **this** was what he was leaving behind.

The painter flinched and Henry paused, wishing this manic grip on his soul away. Taking a deep, shuddering breath he stamped down his temper. "Do it again" he murmured as he fled the room.

...

He limped into his dark room, devoid of any servants and sank onto his chair before the mirror. He stared at his reflection and saw an old man gazing back at him. His mind wavered to the other night. To the conversation with Catherine.

So much time wasted. So many years praying and hoping for a son when she knew their union was cursed. She had always been so prim and proper, so regal-a princess of the blood. He had been so in awe of her as a boy and she had used that awe to manipulate him. She had lied and schemed to become his wife. He knew there had been a part of her that had maybe loved him-but it had been overshadowed by her desire for the throne. The crown of England on her head and on her daughters.

 _"She will rule...in this future you have created. She will purge England of the heresy you have inflicted."_

That is what Catherine had said last night. His Mary had grown so much since that time she had refused to obey him. She had developed into an elegant woman he had been proud to call his daughter. But could her support and devotion be an act? Would she always be her mother's creature-more loyal to her Spanish roots and to the devil in Rome than to England and her father? Had he been wrong in his familial love for her to raise her back to her title of princess? He was now certain beyond belief that his marriage to Catherine had been unlawful. That Mary was a bastard and unfit to take the throne. He was suddenly gripped with fear that his daughter would rise up against Edward, pushing him from his place as Henry's successor.

Why had Catherine cursed him so? He rose from his seat and limped to pour himself a goblet of wine. As the sour red liquid splashed into the cup, a wave of calm enveloped him. The room became still and noticeably warmer and Henry's nose could detect a hint of roses in the air. His shoulders sagged as he felt it. As he felt her.

"Why are you here?" he rasped, taking a drink to soothe his mind.

"I came to see my daughter."

While her words had been the same as Catherine's, her voice was smoother, not broken by a heavy accent or even by anger. Anne sounded as musical as she had in life, but Henry still dragged his eyes to her. She looked just as she had when he had crowned her: lovely and enigmatic. The sight of her both relieved him and infuriated him. But her eyes were not for him-they were reaching out to take young Elizabeth's hand.

"She was the only pure thing in my life" Anne all but whispered, drawing their daughter to her and pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. "But in my life, I neglected her. For she was only a girl and I wanted so much to give you a son." Now she flicked that haunting gaze to him and just as in life he stood transfixed. Her lips twitched up in that lovely half smile as she turned back to their child. "But now I am so proud of her. Fiercely proud! She is so clever. And though she is like me in so many ways...she is not as intemperate as I was." She tilted Elizabeth's chin up proudly and smiled at him. Henry almost snorted. Intemperate...what a kind word for what Anne had been. A conniving, manipulative, jealous bitch was more like it. One that had railed against him at every opportunity. Henry took in the sight of the two of them and felt his old resentment of Anne rising to the surface. Seeing the two together, so similar, so beautiful only reminded him of all he could have had with her. They had created such a beautiful girl...what would their son have been like? But she had lied and manipulated him-making him think that she loved him.

"You must be proud of her too, Henry."

No. She had never loved him.

"I am. Very proud of her. And I know how clever she is." He looked into Elizabeth's eyes, so like Anne's and felt his heart hardening. "And I wish I could love her more...but sometimes she reminds me of you" He pointed his cane at her, accusingly." ...and what you did to me." he drew pleasure seeing Anne's face twist in confusion and hurt but then she moved forward with surprising determination.

"I did nothing to you, I was innocent!" She protested. "All of the accusations against me were false."

Henry snorted, "Nothing? Madam at worst you are guilty of adultery, witchcraft, and treason! At best you are still a harlot who bewitched me into heresy and murder!" He saw her flinch away, but her eyes had gained the fire she had always possessed.

"Heresy? Murder?" she hissed. "You think I was the one to make you into the faithless tyrant you have become? I think not, Henry...You blame me for all you did to have me, but it was not witchcraft. It was your own selfishness and stubbornness that brought about these consequences. You tired of your old, haggard wife and were desirous of a fresh bride. You abandoned her and did whatever you needed to do to prove to the world that you were in the right. I did not see you complaining about the religious reform when if filled your coffers and helped you leave Catherine! And when you had tired of me,you did whatever you needed to do to rid yourself of me as well. You send innocent men to their deaths to achieve your own wishes!"

"You promised me a son!" Henry roared, unable to find a strong enough argument against her cutting words. But Anne only laughed cruelly.

"And you think I could have carried one to term with the stress and pressure you put on me? While you were out whoring with any slut that would look sideways at you?!" Henry was about to reach out and shake her in anger before he saw the fight leave her, her eyes returning to a melancholy sadness.

"I did not come back to fight with you, Henry." She stepped away from him, taking a deep breath as she created distance between them. Absurdly, Henry missed the closeness. Although Anne had always infuriated him, he had never met a woman with as much fire as the witch before him. No woman had made him feel half as impassioned as Anne did when she wielding that razor sharp tongue of hers. Even now, bubbling with rage, he felt young and full of vigor. Anne did that to him.

"And why did you come back?" he growled, stepping closer to her again, desperate to feel the heat from her. "To taunt me? To show me that no queen could match you?"

But she did not raise to the bait. She only smiled at him, almost pityingly. "I should never have been queen, Henry. Not yours, at least. I was too hot tempered, too spirited to be your queen. You wanted a docile, submissive woman. But I was destined to be an equal. To have a man who loved me as I loved him. To treat me with respect and listen to my opinions. That was never you, Henry."

"I loved you!" He defended himself, but again, she only chuckled.

"You wanted a son. You wanted a young and fertile wife. You did not want me." She contradicted him. "But I loved you. Not just the king, but the man you were, Henry. I was drawn to you...but like a moth to a flame, I burned..."

He watched her turn her back to him and felt an overwhelming sense of urgency well in him. That she was leaving and he would never see her again. "Anne...please, don't..!" He didn't know what he was calling her back for. To beg her to stay and to forgive him? To scream at her and shake her in anger?

But it did not matter. She was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Henry spent the next morning desperately trying to forget the night before. Seeing her had shaken him to his very core. Anne had always managed to consume his thoughts in life, but he had hoped that once the witch was dead her spell would be lifted. He realized now how wrong he had been. How her shadow had colored everything since. How both the sting of her betrayal and the horrific possibility that she had been innocent had plagued him.

Seeing her last night had dredged up all the pain and confusion back to the surface of his mind and it had him reeling. Had she truly been innocent of the charges brought against her? Catherine had been unable to lie when she had appeared before him...was Anne's spirit lying? She had steadfastly refused to confess her sins before her death-something that had always weighed on him. She knew she was going to die...there would be no reprieve for her and she was intelligent enough to see that. Yet she had not confessed. She had always been a religious woman-despite what the Pope had thought of her. She would not have damned her soul going to the block without confessing. Even now, years later, he felt his breathing grow short as he thought on these doubts. He had locked them away for so long, but they had always been in his mind-cracking under the pressure. It was so much easier to believe that she had betrayed and bewitched him that to think that he had...

He had loved her. Fiercely. But the sharp wit and independent nature that had enchanted him during their courtship grew more and more chafing as time went by. Especially as the royal nursery stayed empty. He had grown impatient and humiliated as the miscarriages increased and her temper made a fool of him. And when Brandon had come to him saying that she had been acting in such a way...well it just seemed so simple then. It had been an channel to unleash the resentment and anger that had been building towards her. Gave him a reason as to why God was withholding a healthy son. Gave him a reason to move on from her.

But had he sent a woman he had loved and men he had counted as friends to the block for no other reason? He had never really looked at the evidence against them-trusting Cromwell to see it done and done right. But had Cromwell not shown himself to be a faithless rogue in the end? And in that moment would he have even been happy if it was declared that Anne was innocent of wrong doing?

It was too much to bear and Henry found himself irritable and desperate to be alone. Yet equally desperate for a distraction. Away from the guilt and doubts that were overwhelming. It was in this moment, caught in turmoil over Anne Boleyn, that Henry felt his skin prickle and the air grow cold. And who had been the ice to Anne's tempestuous fire?

"Jane..." he breathed almost in relief. He turned, expecting the beautiful, sweet, kind Jane of his memories. After spending all day racked with guilt and the thought of _her_ he needed to see Jane's gentle smile. But he was not greeted with all the warmth she had given him in life.

Jane stood tall and cold, draped in black. A mourning veil rested on her pale locks and provided a grim contrast to her almost white skin. She looked much older than the picture he had ingrained in his mind and her face was devoid of any kindness. In fact, her eyes held a deep resentment and anger that he had never seen in her. "How is my son?" she asked, her lips tight and her eyes and tone accusing.

"He is well" Henry moved towards her, hoping to see her eyes soften. "I have taken all care of him," he assured her and was pleased to see her nod ever so slightly. "Sweet Jane..." he was so close to her now, hoping to feel the calm he always did when she was near him. But it still evaded him. "Soon he will be king." His boy was still just a child and Henry wished he had more time, but he was starting to realize he did not. But Jane had given him a perfect son to follow him to the throne. He was hopeful for his child and as he looked at Jane, he wanted so badly to see some form of agreement but to his dismay, she was shaking her head.

"My poor boy..." she gritted out, the anger returning to her eyes. "My poor child!"

"No!" Henry cried, moving to grasp at her hands before a movement stopped him. Little Edward, his perfect little son stepped into the light. "He is the most beloved...He is my special boy..." Henry trailed off, taking in his usually jovial child's gaunt face. Edward looked only slightly older than he did now and so much like his mother. He reached out to beckon the child to him, but Jane held him back.

She looked down at him as she held their son close to her. "He will die young," she murmured taking the air out of Henry's lungs.

"No. No!" He turned away from their apparition refusing to believe such a thing. Had that not been what he had been so adamant to avoid? He knew first hand the dangers that faced the monarchy when left to a sickly heir. His own brother had fallen at a young age and it had only been because of Henry that the Tudor dynasty had survived. But Henry did not have that kind of security. Everything rested on Edward's shoulders and Henry would be damned if he left his throne unattended. He had been so careful to protect his son. How could what Jane was saying be true?

"You expected too much of him" her voice cried out. "You expected too much of me..." He turned to survey her again and was horrified to see her image changed. Gone was the stoic, angry woman in black. Instead Jane stood in a pure white nightgown as she had on their wedding night. Her golden locks rested around her shoulders but was clinging to the sweat on her face. But most noticeably was the crimson stain marring the front of her gown. Blood was pouring out of her, dripping down her legs and pooling on the ground. Her skin was milk white and her eyes wild. She was clutching her abdomen as she bled. Horrified, Henry leapt back away from this gruesome scene. Jane sank to her knees and reached out with grasping fingers coated in blood, but he stood frozen in fear. He screwed his eyes shut and turned from the horror.

"You killed Catherine. You killed Anne. And you killed me." Her cracked voice echoed throughout the chamber before silence engulfed him. Only his own ragged sobs remained and when he opened his eyes, she was gone.


End file.
